The Weight of Living
by Lithophene
Summary: This new world is dark and unforgiving. Toughing through the grit alone might let you survive longer, but as Marshall finds out, maybe you're better off being dead than alone. Eventual Daryl/OMC.
1. Restless

**Chapter 1: Restless**

_Note:_ And there's art! Tried to link it in, but it didn't take, so here's a link to it instead: t.i.n.y.u.r.l.c.o.m/mzfzpdj. Just get rid of the excess periods.

* * *

Maybe this was the day he was meant to die.

Marshall was tired of running, tired of being afraid of the darkness. Ever since the turn, life felt like it was running on borrowed time. How many sleepless nights could his body handle, scared of every guttural sound that echoed from the shadows he couldn't see into? Not many more, he'd figure. The hands of the clock were slowing.

His breaths were quick and ragged, and his legs felt ready to give out under him. He'd been reckless. Fuck… he'd been stupid. It was easy to become careless when the days seemed to blur into one unrecognizable memory. There was nothing to ground him to the present, nothing but the fear of trying to get through another day. Usually it was a quiet thing, like a whisper in the breeze. It wasn't quiet now.

Panic was shrieking at him, filling his every bone. He wanted to run, he needed to run, but his body couldn't keep at it anymore. His hands were shaking. How was he supposed to aim if he couldn't keep his aim steady? He closed his eyes and stood tall. This was it. It was now or never. He lifted his chin up, letting the patchy rays of sunlight gleaming through the leaves warm his face. Just breathe.

The wind whipped at the short waves of his hair, and for a second, he could mute out the all the groans so that all he heard was nature itself. Civilization might have ceased to exist as they all knew it, but the world was still here. It was still kicking. It was just… darker. And quieter. And a hell of a lot scarier than any nightmare he might've had before the turn, but it was still fit for living in if you could prove yourself able to survive – to live.

And he had no plans of dying. Not yet. Not without a fight.

He opened his eyes, and everything came into focus. There was a rotting woman snarling only a few feet ahead of him, and he only heard more sounds coming from all corners. The difference was that his hands weren't shaking anymore. He took a step back before letting his arrow fly clean through its skull. One arrow gone. He reached for the quiver on his hip and drew another arrow, nocking it quickly.

They were all around him. He turned in place, sizing up the challenge. There were at least six that he wouldn't be able to outrun. Damn it, he'd fucked up big time. Rage started to bubble in his chest. It couldn't end like this. Not after all this time alone, all the people he'd watched die without stepping in – he couldn't die with that on his conscience. He needed a clean slate, and to do that, he needed to carve a path out.

"Fuck you, you piece of shit zed!" He roared as he hurried towards a pair of walkers, watching with sick satisfaction as his arrow pierced the dead man's skull.

He held tight onto his bow with his right hand as he unhooked his climbing pick with his left. He twirled it once before swinging at the second walker. The pick dug deep with a wet crunch. Marshall yanked his weapon back roughly only to have a spray of putrid blood and brain hit his face. He pushed the disgust back as he kept moving, grateful he at least had his scarf covering his mouth.

The path was clear for now, but he still had more zeds following him than he could handle. He let out a tight breath before hooking his pick back onto his belt, choosing to switch back to his compound bow. He turned in one quick motion, walking backwards as he nocked another arrow. Out of curiosity, he peeked a glance at his quiver and he almost froze in place when he saw only two other arrows. There was no way he could risk losing all his arrows just to kill three more and have the rest keep on chasing him.

"Fuck…"

He was exhausted. He'd already been running for… he doesn't even know how long, but it didn't seem like there was no other choice. Even if it hurt, even if it made him want to break down in tears, he'd have to keep going because there was no way in fucking hell that he was going to lay down and let himself get torn apart. _No fucking way._

With a grunt, he hoisted his bow across his shoulder and turned on his heels. He pushed himself roughly around a tree before setting off on a jog as quick as his aching body would let him. He had to admit, the sound of the walking dead chasing after him was one hell of a motivation to keep him from slowing down, so he kept at it and he ran. He ran even as his legs screamed at him to stop. He ran even as he gritted his teeth through the pain.

Eventually, he just couldn't keep at it any more and he pressed himself against a tree for support. His breathing was heavy. Georgia loved to remind him of its heat. He dropped to a crouch and shook off his rucksack. There was only one more thing he could try. The distance he'd put between them wouldn't buy him much of a window before they caught up to him. He tore it open in a hurry, huffing in irritation as he dug through all the shit he lugged around with him. Then he found it.

A kitchen timer.

Thank god he'd grabbed it. He brought it up to his lips and gave it a quick kiss as if It were his own child. Something in his gut had told him to pick it up when he'd found that it was still working. Molly'd said that enough sound would draw the geeks away like clockwork. Hell, he'd been with her when she rung the church bells in Savannah to draw them off. All he could hope for was that it was loud enough. Marshall sealed his rucksack and put it back on before setting the timer to ring in thirty seconds.

He pushed himself away from the tree before lobbing the timer as far away as he could in any direction that wasn't where he wasn't headed. Then he pressed himself against the tree and waited. The bark was rough against his exposed hand. He could feel his blood coursing with every pump of his beating heart as he waited and waited for what seemed like minutes before he heard the mechanical ringing echo in the distance. _Thank God._ He offered a silent prayer as he let himself calm down.

A few minutes passed before he figured it was safe enough to make keep on going. He glanced up past the leaves before smiling sadly. The sun was starting to take on an orange hue. He'd need to find shelter soon. Marshall pushed himself away from the tree with a huff and took off once more. It wasn't long before – thankfully – he spotted what looked like the start of a neighborhood. There wasn't any time for luxuries.

After making sure the street was clear, he made his way towards the nearest house wearily. He reached for the front door slowly, twisting the knob open and giving it a gentle shove open. He kicked the frame of the door twice loudly and took a step back, keeping his bow drawn and aimed at the open doorway. Seconds passed, eventually minutes. Nothing came out, so he made his way in, shutting the door behind him. He figured it was once a decent home, but judging from the look of torn up furniture and clutter littering most of the floor, the house had long since been scavenged.

He made his way up the stairs, ready to loose an arrow at any surprise that may be waiting for him. The floor was clear. He stopped in what was once a master bedroom before finally putting his bow away. Marshall saw his reflection in a large cracked mirror over a disheveled dresser and frowned under his scarf. He looked shit, drenched in sweat and covered in dirt and blood. He let out a shaky breath as he grabbed the hem of his shirt and rubbed his face as clean as he could get it. It wasn't much of an improvement, but it was better.

He wandered over to the window and pressed his forehead against the dusty glass. The sun was setting behind the tree line in the distance, and he found himself wishing he could just watch it uninterrupted in peace somewhere. But he often wondered if there was even a point to trying now. There weren't many places safe enough to do that anymore… if any at all. He sighed softly as he eased away from the pane. He was exhausted but even in the room he was in, he didn't feel safe. He rarely felt safe inside anymore, as tempting as the bed might seem.

Marshall ran his fingers along the frame of the window, finding the locks and snapping them off. He slid the window open and was halfway through it before he looked back to spot the knitted blanket on top of the bed. He wasn't going to lie; it looked comfortable, so he stepped back inside and grabbed it before clambering out the window and hoisting himself up onto the roof. This wasn't the first time he'd chosen to sleep on a roof rather than a bed in a locked room. Being in a room put him on edge. It almost felt like a cage. Zeds could go up stairs and break down doors, but they can't climb walls. Knowing that was enough to set his mind at ease.

There was a nook where two slants met and he plopped down there, perching his gear nearby so they wouldn't slide off. Once he was settled in, he finally undid the scarf wrapped around his nose and mouth. Absentmindedly, he scratched at his stubbly cheek after the chill suddenly hit his face. His eyes were locked on the stars starting to show in the darkening sky.

He stayed that way until there were no traces of sunlight in the sky, and all that was left were the stars and the moon. A lot of times he'd wonder what it would be like to be up there, away from all the troubles that just breathing brought nowadays. It was depressing to think about, but it was a better thought than acknowledging the quiet of being alone. He sighed softly, pulling the blanket up higher.

He curled up into it, rubbing circles at the burn scar on his wrist beneath. He could've turned into one of them, but he didn't. That had to mean something. The thought was enough to ease him in a comfortable sleep, if only for a little while.

Something was better than nothing.


	2. Memories

**Chapter 2: Memories**

_Note:_ This is probably the one and only flashback chapter I'll be writing. The point of it should be clear later on.

**Warning:** This chapter mentions rape and attempted rape. If those topics make you uncomfortable, feel free to skip this chapter.

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_**Roughly 5 months earlier,**_

This wasn't how it was meant to be.

He was supposed to be with a group of people he could trust and start a new chapter of his life after the outbreak. Maybe it was a foolish idea. His gut had been screaming at him, telling him that the choice he was about to make was going to turn out badly. Very badly. And for the first time since everything went to shit, he decided to silence it. The last thing he had expected was to find himself ashamed and defeated.

He couldn't even bring himself to look up.

He found himself against a dirty wall, down on his knees with his hands bound behind him. He was fourth in the row, two to his left and only one to his right. The air reeked of fear and defeat, and it made him sick. With a frustrated growl, he banged the back of his head against the wall. He'd been raised to trust people, to let other people in, and maybe he wouldn't have been in this situation if he'd had listened, listened to the primal instinct to survive, to avoid all dangers. But he hadn't… and now here he was, tied down like cattle waiting to be slaughtered.

There was a faint smell of fire nearby. It drove him to opening his eyes, to finally acknowledge just what kind of a mess he'd gotten himself into. They were outside; lined up against what looked to once have been a warehouse. The small campfire shone like a beacon in the night, clearly illuminating the four men surrounding it. They were laughing, some of them grinning, some of them smirking, but all of them had a dark glint to their eyes, especially when they'd peer over to the row of captives.

A few of them were tearing meat apart with their teeth like savages, but that's what the world had become, hadn't it? It was a savage place for savage people, where roamers weren't the real threat anymore, not really. Zeds were mindless… predictable. They acted like herds, and you could survive if you kept moving. But people? No, people were the real threat now. One person could shine a smile, fake concern, and knock you out the second you turn around, and that's exactly what happened to him, and it only drove him to slam his head against the wall even harder.

There was quiet murmuring to his right. His eyes wandered over to the woman beside him – she seemed to be in her late thirties and had messy, brown shoulder-length hair on a heart shaped face. She had stress lines marking her features and little scars on the skin he could see – she was a survivor. Not like the others he was lined up with.

"Hey," he whispered, nudging her gently with his shoulder, "You all right?"

Her murmuring stopped and she shut her eyes for a few seconds before sneaking a glance at him, "Yeah." She mumbled in a thick Southern accent, "I'm jus'… prayin'."

Marshall frowned. "Praying for God to save us?"

She glanced at him again, and he noticed the blue color of her eyes, "Yer not from around here, ar' ya?"

"Nope."

"Ah can tell. Betchya wish ya were home right 'bout now, huh?"

"Yeah." was his quiet response, mimicking her.

"A shame."

They were silent for a few seconds, only to be startled by a loud bellow coming from one of the assholes that had them bound.

"I wasn't prayin' ta God ta save me." She lifted her chin up in pride, "I was prayin' for Him ta forgive me for doing what I gotta do ta survive."

Her gaze wandered over to him, "What's ya name, kid?"

"Marshall," he said, and he hated himself for the way his voice shook for a second. He felt her eyes on him before she looked away.

"Anna." There was a silence again as they watched the fuckers in front of them, "They're eatin' people, ya know."

"What?" He pulled a face, disgust rolling over him, remembering the way he saw the men tearing into the meat with their teeth. It was horrifying. You run from the roamers to try and stay alive and now you had to worry about getting captured by fucking cannibals. It was then that he noticed her staring at him, her face grim.

His blood was boiling.

"If they don't find a use for ya, they eatchya, and if they find a use for ya, ya might just wish they'd eaten ya instead. Those others," She pointed at the man besides him with her chin, "They won't last. Ya can see it – they're broken. Weak." She almost hissed the word, "But you? Ya look like you wanna live. Do ya?"

Marshall looked ahead. He felt cold as he processed the new information. He glanced at her, nodding briefly.

"Good, because for this ta work, ya gonna have ta live with them dying for us to survive." She didn't wait for a response, "I'm gonna slide ya a shiv real quiet like. Use it to cut your binds. Careful. If it breaks, we're fucked. They're gonna come over here soon, all smug and grinnin'. They're gonna look ya over, and they're gonna take their picks. Wait for an openin', and then kill one of 'em. I'll follow your lead."

He frowned, feeling a knot forming in his stomach. "How?"

Anna scowled at him, "They think I'm some passive bitch they can use like a blowup doll. N'aw. I'm already loose, kid. I'm jus' pretendin' so I can kill these fucks. Now, you ready?"

He nodded.

"Good. Now shut up, and cut yerself free." As subtle as she could, Anna slid the shiv behind her toward him, nudging it with her fingers.

Marshall reached out for it, trying his hardest not to look back and check what he was doing. After fumbling around for a few seconds, he lined it up with the plastic restraint. He gritted his teeth as he slid the sharp end up and down along the edge, his eyes glued to the fuckers around the campfire.

His blood froze when he accidentally locked eyes with one of them, a sick smirk starting to show on his face. The bandit patted one of the other's shoulders and suddenly all eyes were on them, and he hadn't even managed to cut the restraint yet. Panic started to flood his system, and he forced himself to grit his teeth to try and keep the fear from showing - he didn't intend to give any of these bastards some satisfaction.

The footsteps clambering closer and closer rung through his ears like a siren, and before he knew it, all five men stood in front of them, scanning over the four new captives as they were game being auctioned after a hunt. It made him sick, and only drove him to push the blade sharper into the restraint, nicking himself by accident. But he bit through the pain, stealing only one glance to Anna to see her hanging her head, eyes glued to the floor.

"Well, well," One of them spoke out, stepping in front of the other goons, "I'm glad y'all are finally awake to join us 'n' our merry group." He let out a dark laugh, and the girl at the opposite end of the row let out a whimper. The grin on the man's face only grew as he approached the girl. He crouched down in front of her and stroked her cheek with the back on his finger, "What's wrong, hon'? Ya scared?"

The girls whimpers turned into cries and the man stood up with a satisfied look. "Lee," He called out while still eyeing down the girl like a hawk, "Take her inside."

'Lee' scoffed and crossed his arms and seemed about to speak up before the man turned around and shut him up with a glare. Lee shook his head before striding over to the girl and lifting her up harshly. Her cries trailed behind him as he wandered off into the warehouse.

Only three were out there with them now.

"Now what about y'all…" The bandit muttered as he kicked the man kneeling besides Marshall. He frowned when he got no response out of him. "This one ain't got no fight in 'im. Got some meat on 'im though. Should do us good."

"You though," Marshall froze when he realized the voice was talking to him, "What about ya? Ya got some mean on ya too. Better shape than this fucker. Ya gonna cry? Maybe beg?"

"Fuck you!" He spat out before he could stop himself, and the bandit smirked.

"Ohoho, lookie here. This one's got some spirit. It'd be a shame ta jus' kill 'im." He crouched down in front of him, cocking his head to the side with that fucking smirk that made Marshall want to punch his teeth it. "It might be more fun ta break him." The bandit pulled out a gun he hadn't seen before and pointed at him in a show. "What do ya think, boys?"

One of the other men spoke up, "I'll take 'im."

Both Marshall and the bandit turned to look at the man who spoke, but the bandit stood up, apparently annoyed, "Jesus Christ, Eli. I knew you were queer but really?"

'Eli' shrugged his shoulders, walking closer toward the two, "'n' why not? Y'all get a girl to fuck and I end up with nothing." He stopped in front of Marshall, looking him over with hungry eyes. He dropped to one knee, and Marshall felt himself panic as he tried to push himself back against the wall. He still hadn't cut himself free. He sucked in a shaky breath as he tried to look away from the grubby hand that was cupping his face and stroking his cheek, "Jus' look at him. Prettiest face I've seen in a while, 'n' he's even kept shavin' after all this time."

"Christ, Eli…" The leader threw his hands up in the air before waving him off, "Fine, you fuckin' fag. Ben," he called out to the last man, "Go get the brand ready."

Christ. This was going all wrong. Fuck, if he'd acted just a little sooner, if he's struck out when their leader had looked away. No, no, no. This was all wrong. Marshall barely managed to hide the shiv in time before he was dragged up onto his feet and pushed towards the door. He looked back once, trying to catch a glance of Anna, only to be shoved even more forcefully to the point he damn near tripped over his own feet.

Inside, only some parts were lit with by a small candles flickering, and in one of the corners, his eyes landed on Lee thrusting into the girl from before. Her whimpers could be heard from anywhere in the small warehouse. It made him sick. Eli laughed from behind him, "Still breakin' her in, Lee?"

"Won't stop 'til she learns to stop cryin'" was Lee's only response, low and animalistic. It was disgusting. Even from his distance, Marshall could still see the bruises forming on her body.

He was too caught up in watching the scene unfolding to react to the forceful shove that had him land face first into a filthy futon. His mind snapped back into action, panic and rage building in his stomach. He forced himself to flip over, only to catch Eli smirking at him.

"What? Ya want to watch me fuck ya?"

Marshall didn't answer him. He looked at him in disgust, his hands busy with pulling out the shiv and working on cutting his restraints again.

"Mm," Eli growled (how disgusting), as he brought himself down to the futon and rested on two knees. Marshall could see his pupils dilating in the dim light. He was running out of time. "I hope no one broke ya before me. That ain't no fun, though I suppose a trained pup is also good. I wonder…"

Marshall shuddered as grubby hands pinched the hem of his shirt and pushed up against his skin, exposing his stomach, and he prayed to God for the first time in years to just let him cut the fucking restraint already. Eli leaned forward and pressed his lips near his navel, amplifying the panic that Marshall felt. "Just as I'd hoped" He breathed out and scraped his teeth roughly against his skin, "Smooth as your face."

Marshall clenched his eyes shut, disgust rolling over him in waves with every movement and gesture. The worst part was that it felt good, and it only made his anger drown out. With one last vicious cut, he felt the restraint give way and his hands were freed. He bit back a snarl as he opened his eyes and glared at the man on top of him. "Hey, Eli," he called out venomously. When Eli looked up, Marshall grabbed his oily hair and pulled back, exposing his neck and digging the shiv right through until it split in half.

The blood poured out over him, coating him like tar that left him immobilized. Eli clutched as his throat, gurgling as life slipped away from him. He collapsed on top of him, and even more blood coated him as he fought to push the heavy man's body off of him. He was trembling now, eyes growing frantic as he looked at all the red on him. He felt panic taking over, but he wasn't done yet. No, he wasn't anywhere near free yet. His eyes darted toward the corner where Lee was still pressed over the girl.

His eyes caught the glimmer of a knife on Eli's belt, and he grabbed it. He gripped it tight before plunging it several times into Eli's face, cutting and stabbing until the features began to disappear into a gory mess of blood, bone, and brain. He stood up, his body still shaking as he walked toward Lee with no subtlety in his step. He wrapped an arm around his neck and pulled him off the girl, ignoring the surprised yelp the man made before he threw him against the ground. All he saw was red. Red was good. So he stomped Lee's head in again, and again, and again until he heard the satisfying crunch of his skull crushing.

He was finally able to breathe. He stood there, staring at the corpse with his eyes unfocused. It was hard to think clearly. Adrenaline and rage had been guiding him, and his breathing was heavy as the high started to pass, but he wasn't done. He breathed out shakily one last time before turning toward the girl, suddenly weary, "You're safe n – " He cut himself short when there was no one there. She was gone.

It was all too confusing. He couldn't risk worrying over her now. There were still two more to take care of, but now he was in control. He adjusted his grip on the bloody knife in his hand and crept over to the door. He crept to the door, adrenaline flooding his system one more time. Anna was still out there. She'd saved him by giving him that shiv, now it was his turn to save her. He opened the door as quiet as he could and slipped out, ready to pounce.

Except Anna had already killed the two of them, and was crouched over the leader's body, stabbing his guts repeatedly.

"Anna?" He called out, his voice shaken.

At his voice, she snapped out of it, stabbing him one last time and leaving the blade planted in his groin. "Good. Ya still alive. That's good." She stood up and turned to face him. She didn't even flinch at the sight of the blood that soaked his clothes. She nodded instead. "Hope ya gutted them good." She paced around, "I tried ta wrestle the gun from him. Some shots were fired… Our friend got caught in the middle." She shook her head. The anxiety around her was almost palpable. "We gotta go. Won't be safe here soon. Yer gear should be by the campfire. Let's get a move on."

Marshall took a second to compose himself. The images kept on repeating in his head, followed by questions of what-ifs. He couldn't bear to consider what might've happened if he hadn't managed to free himself. It scared him even, and it enraged him. He could understand Anna's rage now. Nothing'd happened to him, but he couldn't say the same for her. With a weary sigh, he took a step forward, but something felt wrong…

He turned to look back just in time to spot the unnamed man lunging at him. It took him a split second to notice his eyes… they weren't human. He'd turned. Marshall bit back a yell as the teeth sunk into his forearm and stabbed the roamer in the head before it could take a chunk out of his arm.

He stepped back as the body fell, clutching at his forearm. His eyes lit up with panic, and he turned around, "Anna."

Anna had her pistol aimed at him, pouting in decision. She let out a frustrated groan before putting it down, "Sorry, Marsh."

Before he could say anything, Anna was already running. She left him behind. It'd only been ten seconds. He could think of something. He wasn't going to die. Not yet. He refused. His eyes darted around, trying to find something, _anything. _His eyes landed on the red hot brand lying on the ground. He stared at it for a few seconds. Fuck. If he was going to die, he might as well try and stop it. Twenty seconds. He ran to it and dropped to his knees in a hurry, rolling up the sleeve on his bit arm. Twenty five. He grabbed the brand and before he could second guess himself, he pressed it onto the bite.

The pain caused him to bite his tongue. Red was all he saw, but red was good. Red meant you were alive. And he could swear that once the red had left, and there was nothing but a burnt and cauterized wound, he could see a butterfly fluttering near the flames.

He would live.

* * *

Note: This was originally going to be a small flashback sequence, but it ended up fleshing out a longer than I'd intended so I decided to make it it's own chapter. It serves its purpose for the next chapter to come, promise.


	3. Faith

**Chapter 3: Faith**

Note: Sorry for the long wait! There's been a lot of stuff happening for me this past week; haven't really had the time to write.

* * *

**Now,**

When he woke the next morning, Marshall wasn't in any hurry to get going. It wasn't as if he had an appointment to catch. No, it was just that… sometimes, when he just lay on his back and let the warmth of the sun hit him full on, he felt as though he could forget. Even if it was only for just a few minutes, he was able to drown out all the thoughts that trailed behind him just about every day. Shit, maybe it was a crazy thing to think, but sometimes it felt as though the sun itself was trying to wrap its arms around him.

He scoffed at the thought. Yeah. It was a dumb idea, but it was one of the few things that managed to help him keep a grip on himself. He needed the distractions; anything to keep him from recognizing the pit threatening to overwhelm him because sometimes he could almost _feel_ himself crumbling. It was just another thing that terrified him. Would he be better off dead or insane?

With a soft sigh, he stretched out, basking in the soft touch of the sun on his chest for one last moment before the sounds of the world started to come back into focus. He scratched at the scruff of his chin, squinting as he glanced around. He frowned slightly, honestly having no clue what to do with himself. The sun wasn't directly overhead yet. If he were to take a guess, it was probably around 10 o'clock, which meant that he had more than a few hours of daylight left.

He huffed as he grabbed at his ragged black button up and slid it on, not bothering to button it up all the way. There wasn't much he could do asides from what he always did: move on. Something was bound to go wrong if he stayed put. He thought of the food and water he had left in his bag. He had a few cans and some other food he'd managed to find along with a few bottles of water. It should be enough to last him a few days if he didn't manage to find anything else nearby.

As if on cue, his stomach rumbled loud enough to snap him out of his thoughts. He wishes he could just worry about things other than food and not getting bit, but damn it, he wasn't crazy enough yet to start having conversations with himself. He reached into his bag and pulled out some jerky he'd managed to find and tore into it angrily.

After Anna… well. He couldn't bring himself to show his face to any other survivors he'd stumbled upon. He'd been avoiding them. The one time he didn't trust his gut, he almost got – No. He shook his head, pushing the dark memories away. There'd been some people that needed help. He wanted to feel bad for not helping them, but they were lost causes. Most were other stragglers, wandering about like he was. Except for the fact most of them happened to be screaming with a pack of zeds right on their tail. He didn't have the arrows to play hero and there was no way in hell he was going to risk getting bit a second time.

He got lucky. The sleeve of his jacket managed to keep him from getting a chunk of his wrist bit off, but next time… If there was a next time, he knew he'd be a lost cause. Just like them. Hell, he'd been angry at Anna for a long time for treating him like that – running off and leaving him for dead - but now he was doing the same exact thing to others. Except they weren't even bit.

He felt disgusted with himself. He'd only killed two men himself, but how many more did he choose to ignore? How many groups did he choose to sneak past rather than engage them? Too many, that was for damn sure. Sometimes it felt like his guilt was just a steady buildup of rocks piling on his shoulders except he knew he was reaching his breaking point.

His appetite was gone now, but he forced himself to keep scarfing down the jerky. He couldn't risk not keeping fed. Not eating meant not having energy, and not having energy just might get you killed. It was a crude way of living, but it worked. It was lonely, and it was methodical, but he was still alive and breathing. And that's what mattered… right? He cracked open a half-empty bottle of flavored water and took a long swig, trying to drown out the tang of the jerky. He was ready to go.

Careful not to lose his footing, he stood on the shaky tiles and started grabbing his gear. It was a shithead thing to do, but he put on his leather jacket. Fuck, in the Georgia heat, he was almost like begging for a heatstroke, but it kept him safe once so he put it on. He put his glove on, strapped on his bag, and hoisted his bow. Lastly, he strapped his hip quiver on next but he paused when he saw his arrows. There were only two left. He let out a shaky breath as he pushed the building panic aside. He'd worry about that later.

Now he was good to go. Unhooking his climbing pick, he stepped over to the edge. "C'mon. Just like Molly showed you."

In one swift motion, he climbed down the side of the house, using the pick to keep himself steady. Once his feet hit grass, he couldn't help but smile sadly. Molly had been a lifesaver, but she was also a regret. If they hadn't brought that horde to Savannah, he wouldn't have gotten separated from her. He wouldn't have had to abandon the city on his own. He dragged his hand across his face as he stepped toward the street, trying to focus, except… something caught his eye.

It wasn't the silence, no. He was glad he didn't hear any zeds moaning or groaning. It was something he was seeing. Off in the center of the street there was a lone butterfly fluttering in circles. He cocked his head at the sight, watching it for a few seconds, expecting it to fly off. Only it didn't. Something in him felt… off. He drew his pick again, fingers rolling over the grip anxiously. He stepped towards it, inching closer and closer before it flew off, putting the same amount of distance between them again. The thing was just… floating there, as if it wanted him to follow it.

Trying to focus on it made his vision start to blur, but he couldn't keep away. It was there for a reason. Things like this didn't just happen just because. So he kept at it, occasionally trying to reach out for it with his right hand, hoping to catch the fleeting little critter only to have it swoop away. Everything else seemed to dull into a low gray. He was barely aware of following it into the woods. All that mattered was trying to catch it, but every time he reached out and grabbed nothing but air.

Nature seemed to quiet down into a low hum and low grays. He wasn't sure how much time had passed; he wasn't able to tear his eyes away from the golden orange wings. It looked so familiar and he felt warm in its presence so he lunged forward one last time, clasping his hand shut around it, but when he opened his hand to finally cheer his little victory, there was nothing there.

He stood there slack jawed and confused as sound started to rush back to him. The chirping of birds and the gentle rustling of leaves only made him frown. There was nothing around him. No walkers, no animals, no butterfly. He was alone, standing amidst trees, covered in a sweat and panting slightly. A quick glance up answered the question he didn't dare ask yet: it'd been at least two hours.

Christ… he was losing it. He brought a shaky hand up to his face and held it there. It was one thing to be scared. Fuck, he was scared, but this? This was a whole new level. He followed a butterfly of all things into the woods… a butterfly that apparently didn't exist. He dug his fingers into his skin, trying to keep the panic he felt building up at bay. He needed to find something to do, needed to get his mind off of this.

He was ready to turn on his heels and leave when the sounds of gunshots rung through the air. Instinctively, he drew his bow and dropped to a crouch, and pushing all his thoughts aside to listen. More shots rang out – they weren't far. Hell, they sounded dangerously close. Every nerve of his body told him to run. So he did… except he was running toward the sound rather than away from it. Something told him this was what he came here for, and as much as he wanted to snarl at that little voice in his head, he decided to listen to it.

It was a short run before he started to saw it: a faint outline of what looked like a tower through the tree line. He saw the fence next, and he managed to put two and two together. This was a prison, and also the source of the gunshots. He clung close to a tree just at the edge of the clearing, taking a moment to pull his scarf from his back pocket and wrapped it around his face. If they were fighting walkers, he wasn't going to get any shit in his mouth.

He tightened his grip on his bow as he crept closer, trying to get a good look at what he was facing. There was a large field behind the fences… and there were zeds clambering out of a truck right in the middle of it. That was all he needed to see to understand. Whoever was at the prison was under attack, and the sick fucks were using the dead as weapons. The sound of more bullets snapped him out of his thoughts.

On one of the inner towers there was a gunman shooting down. He saw maybe four figures huddled behind cover… and one body in a pool of blood. There were women, he could tell that much, and that was enough for him to make up his mind. No more running. No more hiding. He grabbed an arrow from his quiver and nocked it, taking a few more steps out into the clearing to line up his shot. He took a slow breath as he looked down his scope and calculated the distance. It was a long shot, the longest he'd taken since one of his tournaments before the turn.

He breathed out, and adjusted his aim, satisfied with the arc. He waited for the wind to still before he clenched his jaw and let the arrow fly. Only two arrows left. It pierced through the air to its intended target, and so long as the gunman didn't move, Marshall was sure it would land. And it did… barely, but it caught the side of the gunman's head, and his body dropped limp. He couldn't help the satisfied smirk he had under the scarf. It was only when gunshots started peppering around him that he realized just how exposed he was. He dove into some of the tall grass when he heard a bullet whistle dangerously close to his head and grunted as he landed roughly.

"Fuck… fuck!" He muttered as he crawled further into the grass, trying to find some cover. It was times like this when he wished he'd kept a gun. _Fucking stupid._ The bullets finally stopped whirring past, and he took a moment to check himself. Everything felt right and his bow wasn't broken. All was good, except… his neck felt warm. He brought a hand up to his neck and pulled it back only to find blood on the tips of his fingers.

The sting hit him quick once he saw the red stains. He felt the warm rivets sliding down the side of his neck, but it wasn't gushing. A few tentative touches later and he found the source: a long gash where a bullet grazed him. If blood wasn't gushing out, he figured it wasn't going to kill him. He dropped his hand down to the ground, placing his palm flat against the dirt, preparing himself to get up and move. There was silence. No bullets were flying, but there was a chorus of hungry moans.

He got up slowly, bow at a ready. He couldn't see the gunmen outside the fence anymore, but he heard the sound of engines driving away… and one getting closer. One look back at the tree line and he saw that zeds were starting to pour out in numbers. There was no going back now. He turned his attention back to the fence, hurrying over until he spotted another man near the corner of the fence. The man started shooting at the chompers that got too close to him, but he hadn't seemed to have noticed him yet. Then he ran out of bullets and was holding back not one, but two zeds.

Marshall didn't hesitate. He didn't have the liberty to doubt right now, not with zeds closing in on him. He grabbed an arrow from his quiver and nocked it, taking quick aim and letting the arrow loose right into the creature's head. Only… his arrow wasn't the only one sticking out of it. Out of the corner of his vision, he saw them. Two men hurried out past the trees, one of them toting a crossbow. Marshall kept his distance, nocking his final arrow. The three men seemed to know each other, and once the first one was clear, all eyes fell on him.

Bow locked sights with crossbow as the two groups drew on each other. Marshall grimaced at the situation he was in. "We don't have time for this." He growls, voice low and muffled.

"Who're you?" The first man asked icily.

Marshall grunted loudly, annoyed by the timing of the questions. "Really? … Fuck." He paused and tugged down the scarf from his face before answering, "Marshall."

"You one of the Governor's?"

Marshall raised a brow, "Who?"

The one with a prosthetic sauntered closer, drawing Marshall's aim with him. He smirked smugly, "Now, now, officer friendly, this ain't one of the Governor's boys. "

'Officer Friendly' stared at him, blue eyes boring into him with purpose. Eventually he relented, shaking his head before glaring at him, "You try anything and you're –"

"Dead." Marshall interrupted, "I know."

The officer was the first to put down his weapon before walking over to the fence. The other two followed suit and Marshall couldn't help but clench his eyes. He was alive. Not bound, not captive, just… alive. For now at least, but he only had one arrow left. How was he supposed to survive off one arrow alone?

"Hey," A thick southern drawl called out to him. It was the crossbowman. "You're gonna need these."

Marshall looked up at the crossbowman's squinted gaze before noticing his outstretched hand. He was holding out two arrows, one of which he recognized as his own. The other was homemade from the looks of it. Marshall furrowed his brows in confusion. Was he trusting him? Still, he took them.

"Thanks."

"'s nothin'."


	4. Bared Teeth

**Chapter 4: Bared Teeth**

* * *

A caged animal on display… that's what he felt like. They'd taken his weapons, a 'precaution' they'd called it. Even now as he was, dirty and covered in drying blood and sweat from fighting alongside the others, they didn't trust him. It made sense, he knew. He was some guy that walked right into them while they were being attacked by lord knows who, but knowing that did nothing to ease his frayed nerves.

Instead, he chose to submit and let them sit him down on a table before going back to talking among themselves. He could see it in all of them: they were scared. Nervous. And it only seemed to make the air feel muggier than it already was. He tried to keep his gaze downcast, to try and not draw to much attention to himself. He was the black sheep that stumbled into the herd. It would be better to wait it out.

"What do we do with 'im?" The quiet question snapped him to attention. It was the crossbowman who'd asked, pointing at him with his chin.

Marshall looked up, catching the glances of the two men. It was such a little thing, the way the crossbowman had asked, but it was enough for him to start to see the power dynamics in the group. The officer was in charge.

The latter pinched the bridge of his nose for a few seconds before mumbling, "Go get Hershel."

The other man nodded quickly and stalked off hurriedly with a soft grunt. He didn't catch himself staring until the officer walked up right in front of him. As he sat, hunched over, the other man stood a fair bit taller than him. It was only when he locked eyes with the other that Marshall felt fear for the first time in a long while. He'd seen that look before.

"You part of a group?"

It was a simple question, but something about it made it feel like his guts were tripping over themselves. "No." There was a brief silence between them where he shifted uncomfortably. "Just me. I've been alone… for a while now. Ran into some people a few months back. It didn't work out."

The man nodded before dropping down to a crouch, meeting Marshall on his level. Gray blue eyes locked with hazel in a silent debate. His brows furrowed, eyes setting hard like steel, "How many of them did you kill?"

The question caught Marshall off guard. Panic must have flared through his eyes because before he knew it, the officer was looming over him, pistol drawn and digging into his forehead.

"Rick!" a woman called out from the side. Neither of them broke their gaze, but Marshall heard the crowd forming.

Rick shook his head as if rattling thoughts loose before repeating his question, "How many?"

Marshall raised his hands slightly in defeat, trying to keep himself composed. "Two."

"Why."

He hesitated. The memories he'd long buried suddenly started to rattle in their vault. He didn't want to think about it, didn't want to remember how sick he felt when those hands touched him. He didn't need it, didn't need the reminder of how he'd wanted to die when he thought he'd turn while he was alone. His gaze faltered for a moment before looking back at Rick, his eyes red and hateful.

"One of them tried to rape me. The other one raped a teenage girl. They both _ate_ people. Happy?" He spat out, glaring at the man hovering over him.

Neither of them moved.

"Rick." This time it wasn't a woman calling out for him from the side. The crossbowman stood next to him, looking almost ready to snatch the gun away from him if he needed to. Marshall saw it then: the reason he was scared. Rick was broken, and it was almost as if he could see the cracks running through him. As much as he wanted to be angry at him, he couldn't. Not anymore.

Rick pulled back slowly, taking a few steps before holstering his gun. Shock, anger, and disgust cycled on his face. Then he just looked lost. Marshall couldn't help but wonder what brought the man to this point. Loss was something they'd all experienced. It was almost a prerequisite to this new world. There wasn't much room for attachment. It was a dark world. Pain was in all corners. Loss was just something you either got accustomed to… or you lost yourself.

He huffed softly, letting his hackles drop. To think the day had seemed to have had such a promising start. He managed to bite back a sigh when he finally noticed the other people standing nearby. There were about seven others about, all of which seemed to have their eyes on him. Shit… Now he was starting to feel self-conscious. Then it made sense.

Shit.

They'd all heard him say it. No wonder the woman with short, gray hair was looking at him like that. It was pity. Pity and sympathy. His chest felt heavy – he didn't want to go into this conversation right now. Or any time soon. It was as though the barriers he'd built up in his mind were starting to falter and he just felt… exhausted. He cupped the side of his head to try and will his troubles away, but that only seemed to spark more concern among the group.

Before he knew it, the crossbowman took a step toward him and not so gently moved Marshall's head from side to side, probably checking to see if Rick had roughed him up. A flare of irritation coursed through him, and he swatted the calloused hands away. Christ, he was shaken up, not incapable.

"Hershel," the man grunted, pulling back, "'s all yours."

An older man made his way over to him on crutches, a sight that made Marshall raise a brow in curiosity. Trailing behind him was a younger girl, no older than eighteen he'd guess, carrying a bad of medical supplies. She smiles softly when their eyes met. Marshall couldn't help but smile in turn. Little gestures meant everything, sometimes.

He had no fight left in him. He was in their home, and he would play by their rules. Hershel was methodical, asking him to pull back his shirt a bit so he'd have a better area to work with. He'd introduced his assistant as his youngest daughter, Beth. He had to hand it to the old man, he was still nimble with his hands to patch him up as quick as he did.

"You got lucky. A little deeper and you'd have bled out on the grass."

Marshall winced as the older man wiped over the tender flesh around the stitches. Almost instinctively, he reached up with his spare hand to feel around only to have it swatted away by… Hershel, he thinks he heard his name was.

"I'm alive now, that's what matters." He hesitated a moment, pouting slightly, "… Thanks."

"It's not a problem."

"I mean it," He avoided looking at Hershel. He could almost feel the look he was giving him, and it wasn't one he wanted to face at the moment. "You've done more than I could've expected from, well… anyone."

"Were you really all alone?" Beth asked, innocently sweet.

"Yeah. It's not as fun as it sounds though. I haven't really… talked to anyone in a while. Feel like I'm gonna bite my tongue on accident." He grinned slightly, silently grateful to be talking to someone.

"Must've been scary out there…" Beth says, almost to herself.

"I guess," He lied. "I mean if you aren't scared, you aren't really human, I think. I'd be more worried if someone told me they weren't afraid more than anything. They're either lying, or they mean it. And if they mean it… Well, they don't tend to be the most stable of people."

Marshall took the silence that followed as an opportunity to fix his shirt and cover his exposed shoulder. He tacked on a few more buttons than he usually would for decency's sake. Beth seemed content enough and packed up all the supplies back into the bag before kissing the older man on the cheek and striding off happily. Hershel was watching like an owl, though.

"So," he started and looked the older man in the eyes, "Rick. He's your leader?"

"Yes." Hershel nodded.

Marshall furrowed his brows, "Is he a good man?"

Hershel seemed to frown under his beard, "Rick's a troubled man, but he's got a good heart."

Marshall hummed quietly, pensive. The way he saw it, he only had two options. One, he could try and stay with this ragtag group, or two, risk everything and try and make it on his own. _For how long?_ He found himself asking. And it was true. How long could he manage on his own? The more he thought about, the more he realized he didn't seem to have a much of a choice. He'd helped them... in the middle of a firefight. He might as well have a target painted on his back now. Stepping outside was practically suicide.

"Alright." He said meekly.

Hershel didn't seem convinced with his response, but before he could say anything, someone called him over to the cellblock for a meeting. The older man nodded at him briefly before hobbling up and leaving him to sit alone in silence with only his thoughts to keep him company. It wasn't a comfortable feeling, knowing that only a few feet away, in another area, decisions were probably being made about what they were going to do. They were probably discussing about their fight with this Governor. He wouldn't be surprised if they were considering what to do with him.

It set his nerves on edge. Every minute that ticked by without the sound of the gate opening was another sixty seconds for him to feel uneasy. Shit, the thought of being told to leave was worse than the idea of him leaving by his own choice. Hell, it actually kind of scared him. With a grunt, he pushed himself away from the table, choosing to pace around instead.

"You ain't a hunter."

Marshall reached for his pick on instinct, only to find himself grasping at air.

"oo, easy there," It was the redneck with a knife for a hand. He brought his hands up in mock defeat, "Jus' wonderin'. I mean ya got a glove 'n' everything. N'aw, you ain't a hunter." He walked closer from whatever corner he'd been hiding in. Everything about him screamed rotten to Marshall.

"What do you want?" Marshall folded his arms across his chest.

"Nothin'. Jus' curious is all." He circled around him like a wolf stalking prey, except maybe he was honest. He wasn't out to kill. "Maybe you was a rich boy who learned to shoot a bow and arrow."

Marshall scoffed, "You're full of shit."

"Easy," He grinned wickedly, "What you was before don't mean shit. Heh, what matters is that you survived. Let me give ya a word of advice," Marshall raised a brow, "Leave these sheep. They don't got the numbers or the guns to win this fight. They're as good as dead."

"What makes you so sure?" Marshall shifted uncomfortable. A small part of him agreed with the redneck, and it made him sick.

The other man spit on the ground, "You ain't seen tha Governor, kid."

"And you have?"

"Yep."

"So, what? You want me to just sneak off while they aren't looking?"

"If you're smart."

Marshall ground his teeth together and narrowed his eyes at the redneck, "I'm done running. They need some help? I'll lend a hand."

"Maybe you're more stupid than I thought."

"Maybe." He shrugged, before walking toward the gate the others went through. "But I might as well stick with them through this."

The redneck laughed darkly, "What makes ya think they'll even let ya?"

Marshall glanced over his shoulder, a determined look in his eyes, "You think they can afford to say no?" He took the silence that followed as a no.

Rick and the others were locked in their cellblock and the boy keeping watch didn't seem too keen on unlocking the gate for him, so he did the next best thing and pressed himself against the bars. He'd made it in time to hear the conversation start to get a bit heated.

"We're not leaving." Rick said, toting a rifle.

"We can't stay here." Hershel countered.

Ah. That's all Marshall needed to hear to catch on to what was being discussed. They were considering the possibility of abandoning the prison. It was a tough call, he could tell that much. The prison was the most secure place he'd run into since the turn. If it were up to him, he'd never want to leave this place… even if the walls almost felt as if they wanted to close in on him. Too many voices were speaking at once, it was hard to keep up with who was saying what.

"What if there's another sniper out there? A wood pallet won't stop one of those rounds."

"We can't even go outside."

"Not in the daylight."

"Rick says we're not running, we're not running."

Marshall shook his head, composing himself. "I wanna help." He called out.

Maybe it wasn't the smartest thing to do, speaking out like that, but he didn't feel like playing any games. Not with a threat right outside the walls. "Look, out there I had to make a choice: help you or go. I chose to help, and you," he jabbed his finger through the bars in Rick's direction, "trusted me. I wanna help, I do, but I can't do that sitting on my ass in the corner." He glanced around at the other faces, mentally cataloguing them, before stopping on Rick. "All I'm asking is that you trust me again. Let me help."

The Asian man spoke up first, "Why should we trust you?"

Marshall shrugged, wrapping his hands around the bars. He almost felt offended. "If I'd wanted to hurt any of you, I would've done it outside when we were all fighting. Plus," He started grinning, "I got that guy on the tower for you."

The girl with short brown hair shifted her weight to one leg and crossed her arms. She pursed her lips lightly, "That was you?" He nodded. "We saw the arrow and figured it was Daryl." She looked up at the crossbowman who leaned against the railing of the catwalks. He shook his head at her. She blinked once before turning back to Marshall. "Thank you."

He opened his mouth, ready to ask who the hell that was, when he remembered the handmade arrow he had slotted in his quiver. Ah. So the crossbowman was called Daryl. It was a relief to have a name to put on the ragged man. He'd have to ask him later about that arrow.

Rick seemed unsure of what to say, so Marshall pressed on. "You might as well spray paint a target on my back if I leave here. They already saw me, shot at me even. They think I'm a part of your group."

"'cept yer not." The words came from behind him. It was the fucking redneck.

Marshall glared at him before turning back to the others, "You need the numbers. You said it yourselves. We're not running." He didn't catch himself referring to them as 'we'.

"N'aw," The redneck wandered around him and leaned against the bars as well, "Better to live like rats."

He saw the way most of the members of the group tensed at the presence of the man beside him. Good. So it wasn't just him that got a bad vibe from him. How they'd let someone like him stick around was beyond him.

For a second, Rick seemed to forget about him, choosing to focus on the other man, "You got a better idea, Merle?"

Merle nodded, obviously eager to egg on the leader. "Yea, we should slip out of here in tha night and live ta fight another day." No one seemed to want to listen to him. "I'm sure he's got scouts settin' up on ev'ry road out of this place by now."

He hadn't coming closer on the catwalks, looking down on Merle. "We ain't scared of that prick."

Merle scoffed, "Y'all should be." That got Marshall's attention. He pushed his irritation down to listen. If he was gonna talk about who they were up against, it'd be better to listen. "That truck through the fence thing? Tha's just him ringin' the doorbell. We might have some thick walls to hide behin', but he's got tha guns and tha numbers. So go ahead an' take this lost pup with ya if ya want," Marshall narrowed his eyes but said nothing, "but if he takes the high ground around this place…"

"Shoot," he pressed his face close to the bars, "he could just starve us out if he wanted to. "

The girl with short hair had heard enough, "Let's put him in the other cell block."

"No," Daryl cut her off before she could argue, "He's got a point."

She glared at him before shifting it toward Merle. "This is all you. You started this!"

"What difference does whose fault it is?" Beth walked around the woman with graying hair, hurrying down the stairs, "What do we do?" Marshall wondered if that was fear he heard in her voice.

Hershel chimed in, "I said we should leave. Now Axel's dead."

Oh. Marshall felt uneasy hearing that. He hadn't been aware they'd lost someone in that attack. He'd been too busy dodging bullets first and then clearing out walkers to notice if any one body happened to be fresher than the others. Shit. Was he asking to fill a dead man's shoes?

"We can't just sit here." Hershel added, raising his voice.

Rick had a blank look on his face, one that Marshall recognized. He pouted watching the man's movements. His whole body was tensing as if he was winding up and getting ready to loose. He started walking toward him, and to his surprise, Hershel started yelling after him.

"Get back here!"

Hershel clambered onto his crutches and stood. Marshall couldn't help but cover his mouth after hearing that outburst. From what he'd gathered of the man, he was likely the most collected of them all. To hear him call out for Rick like that almost told him just how forgone Rick had likely gotten. The silence that fell afterwards from the others only vouched that theory.

The older man was soon standing behind Rick. The way Rick almost seemed to look through him sent a chill through Marshall's spine. "You're slipping, Rick. We've all seen it." There it was. "We understand why," There was another question, "But now is not the time. You once said this isn't a democracy," Rick started to turn, some semblance of him returning, "Now you have to own up to that. I put my family's life in your hands. So get your head clear and do something."

Marshall almost felt as though he'd just witnessed something he shouldn't have. And it was true, maybe he shouldn't have. Not with the uncertainty of whether or not he'd be allowed to stay. It was like learning something personal about someone you didn't know. Even if you didn't want to, you started to care. Maybe just a little bit, but that sliver was enough. Then you were fucked.

He pulled himself away from the gate when the boy unlocked it for Rick. He was expecting the other man to walk past him, but he stopped to look at him. Really look at him. And then he nodded. It was a short gesture, but Marshall couldn't help but wonder… Did that mean..?

Daryl clapped his hands on the railing above, glancing down at him, the faintest hint of a smirk on his lips. "Welcome to the tombs."

* * *

_Note_: So I finished this chapter ahead of time 'cause I got inspired, aha. I figure I'll take the time to rewrite chapter one now.


	5. Monotone

**Chapter 5: Monotone**

* * *

Night was quick to fall on the prison. Even if he'd wanted to talk to the others, Marshall found himself more often than not standing awkwardly with his hands dug into the pockets of his dusty jeans. Part of him hoped that if he'd scrounged deep enough, he'd find the answer to getting the folks at the prison to trust him. It was like a thought that'd wedged taken root in the recesses of his mind and he couldn't yank it out.

It was past the point of a curious, simple want. It was need now, fueled by faint smiles and idle chatter, pushing it past the point of a faint ember in his heart. "We all have our jobs to do," Beth had told him before smiling cheekily, "You just have to find yours." That was something easier said than done.

Marshall sighed softly into the dark of his cell. It was small – safe. A few personal touches and maybe it could start to feel like something other than a cage, but that's exactly what it felt like. Only it was gilded under the pretense of safety… not that he doubted the group's ability to defend their home. It was just… something about the small quarters. He felt trapped.

He pushed himself up slowly and turned to sit on the edge of the bed. He frowned slightly as he dug his palm into the thick padding. Maybe it was a silly thing to be stressing over, but it was too sudden a change for him. He'd gotten used to taking a moment every night before shutting his eyes and just watching the stars dance in the night sky. The only thing on top of him was a gray ceiling, surrounded by gray walls in a gray building. It was suffocating, but feeling as he did made him feel like an ungrateful prick.

Hell, they'd been willing enough to let him stay with them in their cellblock (he chose one on the upper level) when they didn't. He'd overheard that they had another cellblock cleared, but… apparently the only two inhabitants were now dead. It was kinda funny. They'd probably figured it would be better to have him with them than leave him all alone in an empty cellblock, probably out of pity. Little did they know that being alone might actually have eased his nerves this first night more than, well... this.

There's a knot forming in his stomach urging him forward until he finally can't stand sitting any longer. He steps over to the corner with all his gear and slides on his boots before crouching down to rummage through his rucksack. He grinned faintly in the dim light as he pulled out a bent carton of cigarettes and a half-empty plastic yellow lighter and tucked them into his back pocket. If it weren't for the fact he was trying to be modest around these people, he'd already have it lit in his mouth.

Out in the lower level, he could hear Beth and Maggie singing together in a harmony probably unique to the Greene sisters themselves. Their voices echoed around the concrete walls. Marshall couldn't help the smile that crept onto his lips as he wondered if this was a common occurrence. It was a cozy thing, he figured, seeing everyone huddled around a candle and spending time together. It made the prison almost feel like home.

The corners of his lips dipped as he shook the feeling off. Getting his hopes up would be one of the dumbest things he could do right now. There were too many unknowns revolving around him to even risk that. Hope was a petty thing in this world. The closest thing he could do now was take a drag of his cigarette and let the buzz wrinkle out the anxiety he felt building up.

His boots clanged along the metal floor, drawing a few quick glances from the others as he made his way down the stairs. Carol gave him a small smile and nod from the crate she sat on near the base of the stairs before going back to resting her head in the palm of her hand. She was a kind woman with a strong soul; he'd gathered that much from his small talks with her. It was in the way she carried herself.

Rick and Daryl were leaning against one of the walls near the small circle where Beth, Maggie, and Hershel. Marshall'd caught on that something was going on between Maggie and Glenn, but he figured he wouldn't pry, especially when the Asian man still had faint bruises healing in sickly greens and yellows on his face. He folded his arms across his chest as he made his way over to the two men against the wall.

Daryl was the first to notice his approach, sharp blue eyes gleaming in the faint candlelight, "'sup."

"Hey." Marshall murmured in response, not yet comfortable to lean against the wall beside the two.

Rick looked at him tiredly, "Kind of you to join us." The man looked better. There wasn't any blank look in his eyes, no high strung muscles ready to spring. Hershel's words must've gotten to him.

Marshall huffed a little, kicking at the ground with the tip of his boot, "Yeah," He drew out the word, peeking a glance at the other members of the group, "I was starting to feel a little cooped up."

Daryl hummed with what he could only figure was agreement. It made sense. Out of all the others, the crossbowman (and his brother, he remembered) were the only two that seemed almost out of place. The way they talked, the way they walked, it all spoke of a life lived outdoors. Marshall wasn't a hunter, Merle was right about that, but that didn't mean he couldn't appreciate the open air. Right now, the air indoors felt like it wanted to strangle him.

Marshall cleared his throat lightly, "Hey, Rick," He feels small at that moment, not wanting to look the other man in the eye, "Think I could step outside for a few minutes?"

He could feel Rick's gaze boring into him. It was a small request, really, but he was technically a guest under their roof, and… maybe he was pushing his luck, but he had to ask. When he finally brought his downcast eyes up to meet what he expected was a suspicious look from Rick, he found the other man to look unnervingly neutral.

"Why?" came the cool response.

His shirt was starting to feel tight around his chest, prompting him to drop his hands down to his sides, "I need -" _air. I need space. I need you to trust me._ He bit at his lip as he brought his left hand to tug at the hair on his nape, "- a smoke." He finally said. He didn't notice his hands had started to shake until he caught a glimpse of Daryl watching him.

A flare of panic coursed through his nerves and he clamped his eyes shut, willing his body to cooperate with him at least this one time to cut that shit out. His hands tensed unnaturally still, but when he opened his lids, he spotted the hunter looking him straight in the eyes. Marshall clenched his fingers into a fist and narrowed his eyes at the other, daring him to say something.

What Daryl said wasn't what he'd been expecting, and apparently neither had Rick. "I'll go with 'im."

Rick arched a brow ever so slightly at the hunter, "No," He raised his hand when the hunter looked ready to argue, "I'll deal with it. You get some rest – all of you" He adds, addressing the group.

No one said a word as they pulled themselves from their spots and started to wander back to their cells. Daryl was the last to go, looking almost unsure with what to do with himself before letting out an angry huff and pushing himself away from the wall. Marshall locked eyes with Michonne from where she watched him from the shadows before turning to follow Rick. The way she looked at him sometimes only reminded him that people were more terrifying than the dead themselves.

It wasn't long until Rick led him out to the small gated space at the entrance to the cellblock. The second the brisk night air hit his face, Marshall couldn't help but smile in relief. He ignored the look Rick was giving him as he put as much distance as he could between them. It was bad enough that he wasn't allowed to take a break without someone watching over him.

His hands were back to shaking when he fumbled to pull out the small box and lighter from his back pocket. He pulled out a cigarette and stuck it between his lips before shutting the box and tucking it back in roughly. It was easy up until that point, but the second he tried flicking the lighter on, he couldn't manage to keep his hands steady enough.

Marshall was grunting in frustration to the point he could feel Rick getting ready to help him. The thought alone must've been enough to get him to steady himself enough, and when the small flame finally lit, he couldn't hold back the groan as he sucked in the first puffs of smoke. He was finally starting to feel his nerves loosen up when he heard Rick clear his throat behind him.

"This… shaking _thing_ of yours." Rick said, voice low.

Marshall furrowed his brows, "It's nothing."

"You sure about that?" _Not really._

"I said it's nothing, Rick." Marshall let out a shaky breath, "Really."

Silence fell over them for a while before Rick spoke up again.

"We're going on a run tomorrow. King County. There's an armory in the old sheriff's department that has the guns and ammo we need." Rick combed his hand through his hair, "I was going to bring you with us, give you a chance to prove yourself, but if I can't count on you to cover us–" He walked over to stand beside Marshall, trying to draw his gaze, "-if you compromise the safety of this group, I won't just leave you out there. I'll kill you."

Marshall watched the other man silently. Rick looked lethal at this moment, pressed close and imposing. He meant what he said. "Relax. When I'm out there," Marshall pointed out past the fence with the lit end of his cigarette before taking a drag, "when it's about life and death, I can shut it down like that." He snapped his fingers together. "But in here, man… I just. You gotta understand. I've been alone for months. I used to climb onto whatever I had to crash on. A tree, a roof, it didn't matter. At least I was safe up there."

Rick backed up a bit, confusion written on his face, "We're safe here."

Marshall nodded, "Maybe we are, yeah." He took another drag and blew out the smoke slowly before continuing, "But I don't know that yet. Old habits die hard, I guess." He laughed harshly before glancing at the other man, "You don't have to worry about me." It was a half-truth. With enough time, he'd be all right… _Hopefully_.

Rick didn't seem too convinced. He stared at him for a few seconds before nodding, "Okay."

"Okay?" Marshall repeated, peering at the other man warily.

"Yeah." Rick responded gruffly, "Just remember what I said and we're good. Let's get back inside."

He heard the creaking of the metal door sliding open behind him when he realized it wasn't a suggestion. It was an order. Marshall took one last drag and let the smoke billow out between his lips slowly before letting the cigarette drop and crushing it under the hell of his boot. He bit back a sigh as he felt a new pressure weighing down his shoulders.

Maybe this was how it felt to have clipped wings.

.:|:.

The crying woke him up. It was late morning, with the beams of sunlight shining in through the barred windows, but he'd heard it. It was a faint sound, like an echo that was barely reaching the corners of his cell. It was a baby crying. Marshall shook it off lightly, stirring in his bunk. It was probably just his mind playing tricks on him again. Only it wasn't stopping, even as he tried to quiet it down.

His eyes slid open groggily as he turned to ease off his bunk and onto his feet. There was concern starting to seep into his tired features as he ran his hand through the oily waves on his head before shuffling out onto the catwalks where he heard the faintest of voices chattering. A closer look around and his question was answered: Carol was cradling a fussing baby near the top of the stairs.

Marshall stood there dumbfounded. He would've noticed – no, he should've – if there was a baby involved, but he hadn't. That only complicated things. Carl, he could understand. He was old enough to survive in this world, but… a baby? A baby couldn't do anything. It was just another mouth to feed. He grunted as he mentally smacked himself. Crawford really did a number to him.

Carol seemed to notice him then and gave him a wry smile, "Morning, sunshine."

"Morning," he drawled out as he stepped closer to her and folded his arms across his chest, a frown tugging at his lips, "Didn't know there was a baby here."

"Yeah," Carol cooed lightly as she tilted the bottle of formula up for the grabby baby to suckle on, "She's a quiet one when she isn't hungry. Why, did she wake you?"

Marshall hummed in response, taking a closer look at the squirming bundle. She was a pale, little thing, with light wisps of hair. He smiled sadly as he looked at her, silently wondering just how long she would last in this world.

"Well, good," Carol teased, "It's about time you got up." Marshall raised an eyebrow, "Beth was on her way to get you when Rick stopped her. Told her to let you get some rest." She shot him a questioning look that he quickly dodged by looking anywhere but her direction. It was then that he noticed the crate padded down like a crib with the words 'Li'l Asskicker' scrawled on the side with little flowers drawn around it.

Marshall couldn't hold back a laugh, "That's her name? Li'l asskicker?"

Carol pursed her lips, obviously not too happy about Marshall dodging the topic, "No. That's what Daryl calls her." She broke into a smile, "Her real name's Judith."

Marshall shifted slightly, "Is she..." He cleared his throat, "Is she yours?"

Carol stiffened for a second before sadness washed over her features, "No. She's Rick."

Ah. The missing pieces in the puzzle suddenly clicked into place, and Marshall finally understood. He'd seen it, the loss that just seemed to permeate from Rick when he was trying to protect his people. It was almost a craze - it scarred him, and it was still a fresh wound, barely scabbing over. He didn't have to ask where his wife was. The answer haunted the air.

"Why don't you go get changed," Carol spoke up. He guessed she must've noticed he got lost in his thoughts judging off the sad smile she was giving him, "I'll make sure they're clean when you get back."

"Oh," The word slipped out of his mouth as he glanced down at his strewn, dirty button up. "I don't really –" He cut himself short, choosing to give her a warm grin instead. Now he just had to remember to try and find some new clothes on the run, "Thanks."

"It's no trouble," Carol spoke, gently putting Judith back in her box. "Now go on, shoo. I'm sure Rick'll come looking for you soon. You missed breakfast." His stomach grumbled at the mention and he moved his hand to try and quiet it, but Carol was already laughing at him. "I'll go pack something for you."

And with that, Carol was gone, leaving him to stand there alone on his bare feet along the metal flooring. Judith was stirring a little, but the baby seemed more than ready to get back to napping. _Fuck…_ If he hadn't wanted to stay before, he now did. As tough as Rick's group was, they needed more people. If they wanted Judith to live and grow up, they needed him now more than ever.

He hurried back to his cell, determination lining his steps. If they wanted to win against this Governor, they needed those guns. Once he stepped inside, he started undoing the buttons of his shirt and tugged it off. Tossing it onto his bed almost felt like he was shedding his second skin. He wandered over to his rucksack and crouched down before unlatching it and spilling all its contents into the dusty corner. He was sure he had at least one other shirt tucked in there somewhere…

"Why are you still here?" A woman asked from the entrance.

Marshall glanced over his shoulder at the stranger. It was Michonne. He'd yet to talk to her. He let his head drop for a second with a sigh. There it was. He grabbed a tattered, rolled up olive green v-neck and slid it on before standing to face her, "What do you mean?"

Michonne lifted her chin, "They patched you up, fed you. You could've left, but you didn't. Why?"

He shrugged at her and tucked the hem of his shirt into his jeans, "I owe them." It was true. They took a risk in taking him. He could understand where her suspicion was coming from, but that did nothing to ease the irritation he felt starting to prickle.

Michonne blocked off the exit with her body and slouched against the metal frame, "Why?" She repeated.

Marshall groaned and turned his back on her. He bent over and picked up his jacket, his glove, and his empty rucksack and put them on in the same order he'd grabbed them. He stretched out his left hand, working in the glove before grabbing his bow and quiver. "You wanna know why?" he started to say and turned to look her square in the eye, "I'm tired of being alone."

Michonne said nothing but her features seemed to ease up a bit. He took is a his cue to keep going.

"I could keep at it, yeah, but I don't want to. Not anymore." He broke eye contact to wrap the strap of his quiver around his waist with a small click, "I have a chance here for something good." He smiled faintly, more to himself than anything, "You do too." He added.

Michonne pushed herself from the frame. She almost looked offended, "What?"

Marshall shrugged again but chose not to push the matter, "Did you come here just to ask me that or what?"

She gave him a side glance before turning to leave, "Rick sent for you."

"Let's go then."

* * *

_Note:_ I was so close to having the scene between Rick and Marsh involve Daryl instead, but this version felt a lot more fitting, aha. On that note… would you guys rather I stick to writing purely from Marshall's POV or not? Let me know.


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